Young Eppes fic
by IrenaAdler
Summary: Short fics written about Don and Charlie's childhood. New story ... Hot and Cold Running ... Charlie's efforts to help Don haven't always been appreciated.
1. Drabble: I Spy

**I Spy—**

"I Spy with my little eye … a regular nonagon minus one."

"God, Charlie," Don groaned to his eight-year-old brother. "You can't even play a simple game right."

"I'm playing it right," Charlie protested, his lower lip trembling in that way that always got Mom on his side. Don knew he should stop right now, before Charlie complained to Mom or burst into stupid tears, but they'd been stuck in the back of this van for _years_ and his brainiac little brother couldn't even play a dumb road game with him.

"You're supposed to say the first letter or the color, not its shape, and _definitely_ not use some stupid math when you should just say it's 'red' or 'starts with an S' so I could have said, 'Stop sign,' and we could have played a normal game like some normal family instead of a family with … What?"

Charlie had stopped pouting and was now grinning at him. "You guessed!"

Don blinked and realized he had. He puffed out his thirteen-year-old chest while at the same time trying to look casual. "Of course I did, dummy. I know tons of stuff you don't."

"You can't multiply five million, three thousand and sixty three and, um, five hundred and fifty-two in your head," Charlie said confidently.

"No, but …" Don stopped him before he could tell him the whole dumb answer. He lowered his voice. "I can tell you what it's like to kiss a girl."

Charlie's eyes grew huge. "Really?"

"Yep," Don said smugly. "Rose Bryant, under the bleachers, after practice."

"Wow," Charlie breathed and bent close to him. "What was it like?"

Don leaned back in his seat, planning to impress his little brother with all the details. This was lots better than a stupid road game, anyway.


	2. Drabble: Bug Collection

**Bug Collection—**

"I've got enough!" 14-year-old Don snapped at his little brother.

"But," Charlie protested, continuing to shove his cupped hands towards Don. "You don't have any _Chrys-opee-day_ family, I checked!"

Don sighed and went to get another bug jar. He should have known better than to ask the little brat to help him on his bug collection. Charlie had scoured the neighborhood and come up with more creepy-crawlies than Don had imagined. That meant that Don had to write up a paragraph on every single bug. Yeah, he was gonna get an A+ on the assignment, but it had been way too much work.

Don brought back a jar and held it out for Charlie to put his bug in. Charlie quickly dropped something with white wings in the jar and Don clapped the lid on top. Don held up the jar and squinted at it.

"It's a _chrys-oper-luh ruf-ilabriss_," Charlie said triumphantly. "A green lacewing."

"I can tell that," Don responded, but set aside the jar so he could scribble down the name. Now he could just copy what it said about 'lacewing' in the encyclopedia instead of looking through his creepy bug book. "But no more bugs! It's due tomorrow."

"Okay …" Charlie said, looking crestfallen. He'd obviously enjoyed working on this bug collection a lot more than Don had.

"Now, get out of my room," Don said absently as he poked holes in the jar lid.

Charlie turned to go, his little shoulders slumping.

"Hey Chuck," Don said. Before Charlie could complain about the nickname, Don continued, "How about after school tomorrow, you and me see what class of bug the Koi like the best?"

"Okay!" Charlie grinned then raced out of the room.

Don smiled to himself. Charlie was a weird kid, but he had his moments.


	3. Drabble: Covert Surveillance

**Covert Surveillance**

"Whatcha doin'?" asked the high, _loud_ five-year-old voice.

"Shh!" ten-year-old Don said quickly, making urgent hushing gestures.

Charlie's eyes went big and he crouched next to where Don was hidden in the bushes. "Whatcha doin'?" Charlie whispered.

Don held up his dad's heavy pair of binoculars. "I'm watching."

"I don' think yur 'sposta touch doze," Charlie frowned.

Don ignored him, since he wasn't running to tattle, yet. He put the binoculars up to his eyes and focused back on a yard across the street. There was activity.

Don lost his quarry as Charlie bumped him, trying to crawl into the bush with him. Don grumbled and scooted to the side so Charlie could fit. He knew from experience that letting Charlie in would take less time than trying to keep him out.

He lifted the binoculars again and reacquired his quarry. The suspect was sneaking across the Mason's front yard, moving in that creeping way that bad guys did.

Don shifted his sights to the suspect's likely destination, confirming no one was there to tip him off.

"Hez na goin' to da fower bed," Charlie whispered.

"Yeah, he is."

"Tradg-ect-or-ee iz wong," Charlie said firmly.

"He's going around."

"Uh-uh. He'd opt-to-mize hiz paf, 'cause hez hurr'ing."

"How would you know?" Don turned to snap at him.

"See?" Charlie said, pointing back across the street.

Don quickly put the binoculars back to his eyes and it took a moment for him to find the suspect again. He was in the wrong yard. Don frowned. The suspect had skipped the Mason's marigold bed and gone for Mrs. Giordano's prized roses. Don grinned and waited for Goldie the Golden Retriever to make his fatal, incriminating move. This was going to be the biggest bust yet for the newest member of the Neighborhood Watch.


	4. Drabble: Newspapers

**Newspapers—**

"Do you want to go to baseball camp?" Alan asked.

"Yeah," 14-year-old Don grumbled.

"Charlie is graciously offered to do your paper route, so you need to show him."

"I know," Don snapped. "He's just so … know-it-all."

Don shoved the last of his rolled-up newspapers into the bag and carried it outside. Charlie was already in the station wagon, a map spread out on his lap with Don's customers marked with red dots. Charlie was muttering math gibberish.

Don snorted in disgust and climbed in.

* * *

After their father dropped them off, Don hitched the heavy newspaper bag over his shoulders and trudged off. He could do this route in his sleep, and had done, many times.

Charlie trailed after him, chattering, breaking into the early morning daze that Don liked to slip into. "But you should really go up Stanford Street first, then take—"

"I like my way fine."

"But, it's sub-optimal!"

"You don't know anything, dweeb," Don snapped.

"I've calculated vectors, foot paths, inclines, ideal delivery angles and trajectories. You could shave ten minutes off your time!"

"You don't have all the data," Don smirked.

"What?" Charlie demanded. "What am I missing?"

Don eyed him. "If I tell you, will you shut up?"

Charlie nodded.

"You can't tell Dad. Or anybody, ok?"

Charlie quickly nodded again.

"Becky Halasamani."

"Huh?"

"Her house is the last one on Browning. If I come from the right direction and the right time, sometimes … she leaves her curtains open and I see her in her nightgown."

Charlie stared. "That's peeping!"

Grimacing, Don said, "Shoulda known you wouldn't get it."

"Um," Charlie recovered. "I can factor that in and still shave five minutes off your time."

Don perked up. "I knew there was a reason I let you take my paper route."


	5. Drabble: The Replacement Model

**The Replacement Model—**

"Daddy, 'm I deefectuve?"

Alan stared at his 6-year-old son. "No, Donnie! Why would you think that?" Donnie was coloring on the floor by Charlie's playpen. The 18-month-old inside was happily sorting complex shapes by pattern and number of sides.

Donnie set down his crayon. "The fidge-rator waz deefectuve, so we'z gots a new one 'n the old one iz goin' in duh garage."

"That's right," Alan said, frowning. "The freezer part still works. But what does that have to do with you?"

"Well," Donnie said solemnly. "You gots a new boy 'n everyone sayz how smart he iz, evun though he'z a baby. So, now you and mom gots a better one."

"Oh, Donnie," Alan said, sitting on the floor and pulling Donnie into his arms. "Charlie isn't a replacement for you! You and Charlie are two different, both very special boys."

Alan hugged his young son tight. What if Charlie turned out to be as extraordinary as that doctor predicted? Was Donnie going to feel like 'a defective model' all his life?

"So I don' havta move to thuh garage?" Donnie asked, his voice muffled against Alan's shoulder.

Alan grimaced. "No way. No matter what Charlie does, your mom and I will never love you any less."

"I'z 'lready moved my blank't 'n cars 'n candy out dere," Donnie said. "But duh floor iz kinda hard."

Alan shook his head, horrified at how matter-of-factly Donnie had relegated himself to 'no longer needed.' Had they been making that much of Charlie's obvious gifts?

"C'mon," Alan said, putting Donnie on his feet. "Let's take it back to your room. Then how about you and me play some ball?"

"'Kay," Donnie said and ran off.

Sighing, Alan got to his feet. Parenting these two was going to be a real challenge.


	6. Drabble: Aunt Irene

**A/N:** I know the math notation isn't quite right - couldn't figure out how to make it work for this site!**  
**

**Aunt Irene's Equation—**

"Daddy?" Charlie asked. "Why does'n Aunt 'Rene like you?"

Alan winced. It must have been very obvious for six-year-old Charlie to have noticed.

"She likes me," Alan tried, but Charlie started his pout that said he was going to be stubborn and insist that two plus two didn't have to _always_ equal four, not if the twos were particularly large.

"Okay," Alan sighed. "She thinks I'm a long-haired hippie."

"She does'n like your hair?"

"It's not my hair, exactly, it's more of a short-hand description for a type of person."

"Your hair is'n very long. Mommy's is longer."

"Mommy is a girl. Their … hair rules are different."

"If my hair getz too long will Aunt 'Rene not like me no more?"

"Irene will always like you, because you're the son of her favorite niece."

"Evun if I gets long hair?"

"It's not the hair, it's what it stands for." Alan seized on an inspiration. "It's like how _x_ isn't actually two but it can stand for two."

"The hair iz _x_?"

"Um, sure."

"Are we solvin' for_x_?"

"No, _x_ is just a factor in the equation of why Irene doesn't like me."

"What're thuh other factors?"

"Um," Alan said, scrambling. "_y_ is that I'm not a doctor or a lawyer, _z_ is that my family isn't strongly Jewish."

"Oh." Charlie was thoughtful for a moment. "I'll be _q_(sub1) and Don'll be _q_(sub2)."

"Okay …"

"So right now, it's _q_(sub1) +_ q_(sub2) _is less than x_ + _y_ + _z_, but me 'n Don are getting bigger and soon it'll be _q_(sub1) + _q_(sub2) ≥ _x_ + _y_ + _z_."

Alan stared at Charlie then began to laugh. "You mean because I provided two adorable nephews, Irene will eventually like me?"

"That'z what I said."

"Oh, Charlie," Alan smiled. "People don't follow equations."

Charlie began to pout and Alan shook his head. Charlie would learn soon enough.


	7. On the Way to Grandmother's House

**On the Way to Grandmother's House—**

"The shortest distance between two points is a straight line," Charlie said. He stuck out his chin in a familiar sign of stubbornness.

"Not when there's a mountain in between, dumbhead," Don snapped.

"I'm not a dumbhead," Charlie shot back. "My IQ test designated me 'Extraordinary Genius'."

"Doesn't matter, you're still a dumbhead." Don kicked the back of the car seat in front of him. "Only a dumbhead would get us stuck in the snow because he can't read a map."

"I can read a map! There's a road right here!"

"Boys …" Margaret said with a sigh. "Please, can we just wait for your father to get back with the tow truck?"

Eight-year-old Charlie and thirteen-year-old Don glared at each other then folded their arms and stuck out their lower lips in identical pouts. Margaret smothered a smile. They really were similar, her two boys, not that they'd ever admit it - both stubborn as mules and smarter than anyone knew what to do with. Now the three of them were stuck in a snowdrift in their leaky VW bus, waiting for Alan to return. It was a small miracle that there'd been a car behind him on this isolated road, a car that had seen them skid and slide off the road and had offered to take Alan to get help.

Charlie rustled the road map in his hands, staring angrily at it. Margaret had let Charlie do the navigating on their drive to her mother's house. Charlie shared Alan's love for maps and diagrams, and sometimes it was too easy to forget how young Charlie was and how literally he took things.

"It was my fault," Margaret said to Charlie. "When I said 'shortest' route, I should have specified shortest in time, not in distance. You also needed to take into account terrain, road conditions, weather, things like that."

Charlie frowned thoughtfully and Margaret could almost hear the numbers whirring behind his eyes. She wondered, as she had so many times, how such an amazing brain could have come in the tiny little package that had been Baby Charlie.

"I know," Margaret said with forced cheerfulness, "Why don't we sing a song? 'Over the River and Through the Woods' seems particularly appropriate right now."

"Singing's dumb," Don said, but he didn't look at her as he said it. Margaret knew that Don was into the stage where he thought everything about his parents was dumb. It hurt her that he'd stopped the piano lessons, but she still often caught him playing piano or singing, and both of them would pretend he hadn't done anything 'uncool.'

"I can't stand sitting here," Don snapped. He pushed open his door and climbed out before Margaret could beg him to keep in the little warmth the VW bus still had.

"Take your coat!" she shouted and Don opened the door back up to get his ski parka, gloves and hat.

He shut the door again and Margaret huddled into her own coat, shivering.

Don stomped around in the snow, thankfully still wearing his ski boots instead of his usual sneakers.

At least it wasn't bitter cold or windy. In fact, it was quite picturesque, with the full moon lighting up the fluffy white snow that covered the trees and lay in sparkling waves over the open meadow. The only problem was the black ice that covered the apparently safe road and had fooled Alan into speeding up.

She hadn't had much time to panic in the moment the van had skidded sideways and landed with a jarring thud in the snowdrift on the side of the road. No one had been hurt and her adrenaline had mostly worn off in the half-hour that Alan had been gone. She wasn't much better at waiting than Don was, but someone had to stay with the kids and Alan hadn't been about to let Margaret climb into a Honda with three unknown men, good Samaritans or not.

She tried to distract herself by thinking of her mother and the hot meal that would undoubtedly be waiting for them when they arrived for their visit. Margaret had wanted to get on the road earlier than they had, but Charlie'd had a last minute meeting proposed with his newest tutor at CalSci and she hadn't been able to tell him 'no.' Not when his face had lit up that way.

She looked back at Charlie and wondered how long she could keep him with those adorable curls. Charlie was already talking about getting it cut short like Don, the reluctant subject of Charlie's hero worship. At least sibling worship was something Margaret could understand. She'd followed her older sister everywhere. Don thought Charlie was a tag-along pain, but so had Margaret's older sister. It was nice to have some normal dynamics, however uncomfortable, in their genius-stretched family.

Don stomped in the snow in front of the van. Alan had gotten the van turned as it had skidded and the front of the van now pointed mostly towards the road, almost taunting them with the illusion that they could drive right up onto the road.

In fact, Don was stomping paths from in front of each forward wheel to the road, as if he planned on trying to drive out. Margaret didn't want to remind him that the van was rear-wheel drive, with the engine in the rear of the car making it even more back-heavy. At least he was entertaining himself.

Margaret heard a rustle from the back seat and looked to see that Charlie had tossed aside the map and was now watching Don with great interest.

"How heavy is the car?" Charlie asked.

"I don't know," Margaret said with a laugh.

"Approximately?" Charlie said impatiently. He was pulling on his thick gloves and zipping up his coat.

"Umm …" Margaret said, thinking back to a recent court case about a wrongful death in a car accident involving a similar van. "I'd say about 3 and a half tons."

"Okay, good." Charlie scooted over the bench seat to the door that Don had left through. He slid the door open.

Margaret shivered and wrapped her coat tighter. "Don't forget your hat!"

Charlie grabbed his stocking cap and yanked it on over his curls as he slammed the door shut with his other hand. He stumbled through the snow towards Don.

Margaret couldn't hear what was said, but she didn't need to. It was obvious from his face that Don was saying something along the lines of "Stupid brat, can't you leave me alone for one minute?"

Charlie began talking earnestly, quickly, making shapes in the air with his gloved hands. Don's expression went from irritated to doubtful to cautious interest.

Don asked a question and Charlie replied, then they talked some more – looking for all the world like they were having a normal conversation. Margaret couldn't remember the last time that they had talked without yelling or name calling or pouting.

Charlie crouched down and drew something in the snow with his gloved fingers. Don crouched down next to him and examined Charlie's diagram, pointing and asking more questions. After a moment, Don nodded, stood up, and came over to the van window. Margaret rolled it down.

"Where's that bag of sunflower seeds?" Don asked.

Margaret found it under the seat and handed it to him without comment. They were keeping themselves busy and warm and not fighting, and there wasn't much more that she could ask for than that.

Charlie gathered branches and twigs and Don found some rocks. Soon, they'd disappeared out of Margaret's sight, back behind the van, and she only heard footsteps, snow crunching, and the occasional thump followed by adolescent swearing.

Don reappeared at the van window, snow clinging to his arms and legs and some sunflower seeds to the front of his coat. "Okay, mom," he said, "Now you just need to drive a little bit."

Margaret raised her eyebrows but slid the keys into the ignition.

Don continued, his voice calm and surprisingly adult, "Okay, now go forward slowly, really slowly, just as slowly as you can. Go forward a tiny bit then allow it to roll back. Rock it back and forth. Go for a minute then I'll wave you to stop. Then you'll turn off the car and we'll put more stuff down."

Margaret did as instructed, and somehow wasn't that surprised when the van started to creep forward, inch by laborious inch, moving out of the snowdrift and back towards the road.

So it was that when Alan returned with the news that a tow truck couldn't come until morning and they'd have to find a hotel room, he found the van out of the snowdrift and two snow-covered boys beaming triumphantly at him. They began telling him in great – and overlapping – detail about how they'd used physics to get the van out. Alan grinned and thanked the men in the Honda who'd driven him for help. The family climbed back into the van, Don and Charlie still talking and laughing with excitement, their faces flush with cold and success.

The accord didn't last long, of course. They were barely back on the road before the boys started bickering again, this time over Charlie getting his wet scarf and gloves on Don's side of the seat.

Margaret shared a smile and a head shake with Alan. Maybe someday her boys would be able to work together, maybe even do great things together. With Don's creativity and intuition and Charlie's brilliance, she bet there were few problems they couldn't solve.

But before then, they had a lot of growing up to do.

Still smiling, Margaret sang, "Over the river and through the woods …"

Alan joined her and they sang, "To Grandmother's house we go …"

Charlie's high voice added in, "The horse knows the way / to carry the sleigh / through the wide and drifting snow, oh!"

Finally, a quiet teenage voice joined in and as a family they sang, "Over the river and through the woods / Oh, how the wind does blow/ It stings the toes / And bites the nose / As over the ground we go."

Together, Charlie and Don shouted the final "Oh!"


	8. Hot and Cold Running

_This fic was written for the Angst vs Schmoop Challenge at __**numb3rswriteoff**__. After you've read the fic, please rate it by voting in the poll _located here_ - "http : / / www . livejournal . com / poll / ? id (equals sign) 1193995" (remove spaces and replace equals sign). Your vote will be anonymous. Rate the fic on a scale of 1 - 10 (10 being the best) using the following criteria: how well the fic fit the prompt, how schmoopy the fic was, and how well you enjoyed the fic. When you're done, please check out the other challenge fic at __**numb3rswriteoff**__. Thank you!_

* * *

**Hot and Cold Running–**

"Mom!" Don wailed.

"What is it, Donnie?" his mom called from downstairs.

Normally Don would complain about the nickname – he was too old to be called 'Donnie' – but he was filthy and tired and had been looking forward to a long hot bath. He called back, "The bathtub is full of ice!"

"Talk to your brother," his mom responded. "He's been working on it all day."

"Shoulda known," Don growled and turned towards Charlie's room.

Charlie was already sticking his irritating curly head out of his door, with a huge smile on his face.

"Hey, dorkus," Don snapped. "Get your stupid experiment out of the bathtub."

"Good, I timed it just right," Charlie said, coming the rest of the way out into the hall. His clothes were wet and hung on his skinny nine-year-old frame.

"Yeah, just right for maximum annoyance," Don said. He reached out to grab his little brother but grimaced and clutched at his back.

"Your back hurting?" Charlie said, his eyes big with concern.

"Yeah, doofus," Don groaned. "Which is why I need the bathtub!" Don massaged his lower back in vain. His back had been hurting a lot lately. His parents had taken him to a doctor, but after X-rays and tests, the doctor had declared it 'overwork' and told him to stay away from the batting cage. After that, his parents had made him take a break from baseball – the longest two weeks of Don's life – but Don had convinced them that his back was better so he could play again. Too bad his back wasn't convinced. He'd overdone it on his first game back today and pain was shooting down his hip.

"Did you have to pick today to do some stupid experiment?" Don asked through gritted teeth.

Charlie blinked at him then said, "But this is for you!"

"What?"

"I read a book on injuries that said the best way to deal with inflammation is alternating hot and cold immersion. Something about pumping the inflammation out of the muscles."

Don eyed him. "What are you talking about?"

Charlie pushed past him into the bathroom. "See, two minutes cold and two minutes hot, with the shower being the hot. I'm estimating three cycles before the ice is too melted."

Don looked between the bathtub and his eager little brother. "You want me to sit in a tub full of ice?"

Charlie nodded.

"Then stand under the hot shower?"

"Two minutes each." Charlie dug in his pocket and produced his blue plastic stopwatch. "Shower at fifty percent of maximum flow."

It didn't take Don long to decide. He would do a lot worse to get rid of this pain. Taking off his grubby baseball jersey, he reached for the stopwatch.

"I'll time you," Charlie said.

"No way," Don said, taking the stopwatch and gesturing Charlie to leave the bathroom. "I'll time myself."

"But I need to see if I guessed right with the ice shape—"

"Out!" Don said, but with considerably less annoyance than earlier. "I'll give you a full report."

"Try to direct the hot water away from the ice," Charlie said as Don steered him out of the bathroom. "And switch immediately from cold to hot!"

"Got it," Don said and shut the door on a still-talking Charlie.

He undressed the rest of the way and, setting his jaw, climbed into the tub of ice.

* * *

The next day, Don high-fived his teammates, accepting congratulations for his game-winning home run. His back hurt, but not nearly as bad as the day before. Maybe it was a coincidence or maybe it was Charlie's experiment.

He'd forgotten to give a report after the ice bath last night. He had just grabbed something to eat and turned to his homework. He couldn't let his grade in History drop any more or his parents wouldn't let him stay on the team. He'd fallen asleep in the middle of the Protestant Reformation.

Today, he looked over at the stands to see the ever-present figure of his brother in the front row, hunched over his stats notebook, his pencil flashing in the afternoon sun. Don's usual spurt of annoyance was muted today. In fact, after he finished talking with his friends and coach, he sauntered over to where Charlie sat.

"Hey, brat," he said.

Charlie looked up and beamed at him. "Three of three! Moving up in the batter's box is really working for you."

"Yeah, and the fact that the pitcher's 'fast ball' was slower than spit."

"Oh? What miles per hour was he pitching?"

"I don't know," Don laughed. "Five?"

"I really doubt—"

Don sat down next to Charlie, which surprised Charlie so much that he stopped talking.

Don grinned at him. "I never gave you a report on the ice and shower experiment."

"Right!" Charlie said and eagerly turned over another page in his notebook. "How long did the ice last?"

"I'd say about two and a half times of ice then shower."

"Only that many?" Charlie frowned, scribbling notes. "It should have lasted 3.2 iterations."

"Did you take into account my body heat and weight?"

"Of course—Oh! I'm so stupid! I forgot to factor in the pressure of your body weight. That would speed the ice melt!"

"Yes, you are stupid," Don said lightly. He was in such a good mood that he suddenly decided to pass on the usual pizza with the team after a win. He stood up. "How about you and me go and get some ice cream?"

"Really?" Charlie squeaked.

"Yeah, there are other good uses for ice, like for eating."

Charlie closed his notebook and stuck his pencil in his pocket. "Ice cream isn't made from ice, you know, though it does contain ice crystals and partially crystallized fat globules in a partially coalesced structure. Sort of like grape clusters."

"Yummy," Don commented, throwing his bat bag over his shoulder and stretching his back.

"How does your back feel?" Charlie said.

"Better," Don admitted.

"Great! How much better?"

"What, like a percentage?"

"That would be great!" Charlie responded, reaching for his pencil.

Don shook his head wryly. "Let's just say 'better' for now."

"Oh, okay," Charlie said, then perked up. "I can set it up again for you tomorrow."

"Thanks."

"Ice density would help the melting problem. I've got some great ideas about packing algorithms and flattened spheroids."

"Where are you going to get 'flattened spheroids' of ice?"

"I'll make them!"

"Right …" Don chuckled, though he wasn't really surprised. He headed towards the bike rack and their bikes. "I'm getting rainbow sherbet and I don't want to hear anything about 'fat globules'."

"Sherbet is different! It's actually made of fruit juice, not cream so—"

"What kind are you going to get?"

"Sherbet?"

"Or ice cream. Strawberry?"

"I'm contemplating a scoop of choco-peanut fudge crunch. I calculate it has the maximum sugar and fat per square inch."

"Wow, don't tell mom or I'll get in trouble."

"Why?"

"You're gonna be bouncing off the walls and not eating supper."

"Oh," Charlie said thoughtfully.

They unlocked their bikes and Charlie put on his bike helmet. Don snorted under his breath. The helmet made Charlie look even dorkier than usual, but he was serious about protecting his brain. Don didn't care much about his brain, just as long as his batting swing stayed good.

"I think I'll get rainbow sherbet," Charlie said at last.

"Less fat globules?"

"Ice is nice!"

Don laughed. "C'mon, brat, I'll race you to the ice cream store."

"But—"

"I'll give you a half a block head start."

"Okay!" Charlie pushed off and made his wobbly way down the street, his path smoothing out as he gained speed.

Watching him, Don had the brief urge to let Charlie keep going, to turn around and ride the other way and leave Charlie wondering what happened. Go to pizza with his team and leave Charlie alone at the ice cream place until Dad came to get him.

Shaking his head, Don got on his bike and started peddling. His back hardly even twinged. The sun was shining and he was the hero of his baseball team. Maybe today he'd let the bratty genius almost beat him.

_Emphasis on the 'almost'._ Don grinned to himself and raced after his little brother.

* * *

_This fic was written for the Angst vs Schmoop Challenge at __**numb3rswriteoff**__. After you've read the fic, please rate it by voting in the poll __located here__- "http : / / www . livejournal . com / poll / ? id (equals sign) 1193995" (remove spaces and replace equals sign)__. Your vote will be anonymous. Rate the fic on a scale of 1 - 10 (10 being the best) using the following criteria: how well the fic fit the prompt, how schmoopy the fic was, and how well you enjoyed the fic. When you're done, please check out the other challenge fic at __**numb3rswriteoff**__. Thank you!_


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